THE THREE SISTERS OF THE BRIARS.
15
The Three Sisters ofthe Briars:
WHO THEY LOVED, AND WHO LOVED THEM.
By OWEN LANDOK.
" Yes, sir! the family is broken up, and there is to be a sale next
Thursday. Maybe you would like to come and buy some of the
things. They say it will be an uncommon good sale, and you can
get a catalogue of Mr. Reece, the auctioneer, in the High Street."
The man was a stranger to me, but he had stopped on seeing me
staring at a bill pasted on the wall outside the Briais, and civilly
offered a little information in addition to that which 1 obtained
through the medium of paper and printer's ink. He looked like a
working-man, but somehow his look and manner conveyed to me
an impression that he and labor of any sort were not on the best ot
terms.
I thanked him, and was passing on, but he followed me up to in-
form me that he would be at the sale, and it I wanted a man to look
after any lots 1 might purchase he was the man to do it. Mean-
while would I give him a trifle just to help him over this day.
" Work's uncommon bad," he said, with a whine; " there's hun-
dreds about the country doing nothing but look for it."
1 gave him a few pence to get rid of him, not being in the humor
to bear his importunity with that equanimity which, I may truth-
fully state, generally characterizes me under trying circumstances.
No; I could not bear to have listened to the chatter of anybody, tor
years ago 1 had known the Briars well, and one of its inmates had
been very dear to me.
No matter which 1 loved of the three sisters living with that prim
maiden aunt. It does not trouble me now. The tide of events
came between us, and 1 saw the waters broaden out, driving her to
the east and me to the west, until the sun set upon my life and the
darkness of love's despair rested upon me.
But enough of my poor little trouble, a mere bantling in the
misery of the world, that came and died ere it matured into a great
agony—it was not a mighty monster of misery to dog a man to his
grave.    It is gone, it is of the past, let it rest.
Three sisters, Grace, Gwendoline, and Mary, and the stiff Miss
Janet Everingham. The girls were all beautiful, and the aunt bore
in her face the remnants of a grace of outline that must have been
striking ere time scored and marred it with its iron hand. How
well 1 remembered them as I wandered sadly back to the inn that
stood in the heart of the little town ot Chipstone.
Ten years before 1 had been known there passing well; but ten
years' absence abroad had made some change in me, and many who
knew me once were gone, others were dead, a few grown into
senility, and the rest had doubtless forgotten that I ever existed.
I lingered in the town, making daily pilgrimages to the Briars,
only to read that dismal bill, and returning with a heart of lead,
until the day of the auction, when 1 took my seat in the drawing-
room with some two score others, and the auctioneer from an ex-
temporized rostrum on the table plunged into his labors.
There was nothing in the room that was familiar to me. All was
changed. The disorder of a sale was there, and 1 sat dreaming of
the place as it once had been, heedless of what was passing.
It was an honest sale. The Jews were strangely conspicuous by
their absence, and the furniture dealer evidently indifferent to or
oblivious of the sale. The furniture was old, and more fit for the
collector of the curious than for the modern householder, and for
the most part sold for a song. I bid for nothing, bought nothing,
until lot ninety-six was brought in. The moment 1 saw it 1 awoke
from my trance.
It was an old bureau, and used to stand in what was the nursery
when Grace, Gwendoline and Mary were children. It was always
a favorite room with the girls, and they used to receive their most
intimate friends there. 1 had spent many happy afternoons, and
often seen somebody—what does it matter now which of the three
it was?—writing on the opened lid of the old bureau, let down smd
kept in place by the curiously simple wooden slides familiar to our
grandfathers.
1 was not rich, 1 had little money to spare, and had not come to
the sale to buy; but 1 felt an impulse to purchase that old bureau.
It would be a burden lo me, of course—what else could it be to a
man constantly shifting from place to place; but, nevertheless, 1
felt that it must be mine.
The only other competitor for its possession was an old woman,
who had bid something for most lots and bought nothing. She
stopped at nine shillings; I bid ten, and the bureau was mine.
Having got it, 1 bethought myself of tvhat was to be done with
it. Hovering outside tbe room 1 discovered my communicative
friend of the Saturday before, and he volunteered to get the bureau
away to the inn in a " twinkling." With the rapidity of a magician
he obtained a truck from somewhere, and with the aid of two
others, stamped like himself with the idler's and odd-man trade-
mark, my purchase was safely conveyed to the inn.
The landlord evidently thought 1 was insane to buy " that old
lumbering thing," but he expressed his willingness to give it house
room until I finally settled what I would do with it. Accordingly it
was placed in the apartment 1 occupied at night, and 1 was left alone
with my purchase.
The key was in the lock, and I turned back the bolt, then drew
out the supports, opened it, and sat down. It was to all appearance
in every respect just as it had been when I knew it ten years ago.
The papers and neatly docketed letters were gone, of course; but
the drawers were there, the full length ones at the top, and the
shorter ones at the bottom to make room for the " secret drawer,"
which would never have remained a secret five minutes from any
one really looking for it.
To this 1 turned, for in it 1 remembered SHE used to keep certain
papers which, in her pleasant, laughing way, she called important.
I had no hope of finding any of these documents when 1 touched
the spring, but as the front fell down 1 saw there was a packet in-
side.
I took it out, and looked at it. Did it contain a secret or not?
Assuredly not, 1 soon concluded, for it was folded in the form of
ordinary manuscript, and was simply tied round with a piece of
. Berlin wool. 1 released the fastening, and opening it saw that there
was not one manuscript only, but three—each bearing a separate
title, written by a once dear, familiar hand. 1 first locked the door,
then sat down to peruse the lines that would have been very precious
to me ten years before.    Here is the first story.
THE UNSEEN LOVER AT THE BRIARS.
We had given up all hope of any lovers coming to the Briars, for
Aunt Janet had, by skillful rudeness and timely coldness, reduced
our circle of acquaintances to some half a dozen old maids, and
about the same number of elderly married people without chil-
dren, each and all of them total abstainers from the lighter graces
of existence, deliberate haters of mirth, and devout believers in the
necessity for strapping and bandaging the minds of the young, so
as to keep them within the bounds of a stern and solemn existence.
Am I saying too much when 1 aver that the very song of birds
was an offense to these good people, and shall I be guilty of gross
exaggeration when I state that Ihe light of the sun was an intrusion
upon the darkness of their daily lives?   1 think not.   They had no